


3 men & a cemetery

by ficfucker



Series: seduction through true crime - a dogtruth collection [11]
Category: Last Podcast on The Left (Podcast) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Never Met, Bad Flirting, First Dates, First Time, Frottage, Groping, Halloween, Kissing, Little Bit of Fluff?, M/M, Meet-Cute, Movie Night, Oral Sex, grounds keeper grave digger and part time mortician!marcus parks, if that's something i need to warn for, little bit of touch-starved!marcus?, uhhh warning for talk about necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-10-21 12:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20693708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficfucker/pseuds/ficfucker
Summary: marcus works at angel point cemetery and parks funeral home. he didn't think such a profession would lead him to find friendship (or possibly love).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> think this is going to be a short and sweet 4 chapter thing but who knows 
> 
> im just having fun

Marcus notices them sitting under the largest willow tree on the grounds on Wednesday, across from each other with their fingers templed to the ground. At first, from afar, he assumes they’re some type of paranormal nuts doing a ritual, putting energy into the earth or shit like that, but when the smaller man yells, “Dude, you’re the one pushin’ the fuckin’ planchette!” he realizes they’re screwing around with a oujia board. 

Marcus snorts. They’re not the first to do it, though an odd couple, and doubly odd to be fooling with spirits on a Wednesday. Typically that was a Friday or weekend thing. 

They’re not causing any trouble, besides the outbursts, arguing back and forth occasionally when the board gave them answers they didn’t want, accusations that one was forcing the planchette, so Marcus returns to pruning shrubs. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Friday, Marcus spots them again. 

He had the day off Thursday, the grass trim and the plots all proper with their flowers watered and little figurines straightened. All he had to do was unlock the gates in the morning, do a check in the evening, and lock the gates at dusk. 

Today he’s raking leaves, which seems to be a task he’s always tackling. Come deep fall, he’ll put burlap over the hedges and shrubs, cover the fountain, prepare for the winter ahead, where he’ll have little to do beside plowing the pathways if requested. 

“I swear, he’s here everyday,” Marcus overhears from where he’s leaning on the fencing, taking a break from leaning over. His back smarts. 

The two men are talking, sitting with their backs to one of the large stone angel statues, unaware in their volume, speaking rather loudly while they eat. 

“Yes, well, I think he  _ works _ here. That would mean being around everyday.” 

A scoff. “Yeah, and have you  _ seen _ him? Could you pick a more cliche horror movie trope? Fuckin’ ghoulish as all hell.”

A giggle-snort. “You’ve got brain worms from horror movies. It’s all you think about.” 

Marcus shakes his head and pushes off from the fencing with his shoe, grabbing his rake. He glances over at them, just wants a quick look as he moves a couple plots over, and the small man catches his eye. They both freeze and the third man notices a moment later, peeks his head up, and then they’re all making awkward, intense, prolonged eye contact. 

The larger man raises a hand in a wave and Marcus turns away, makes busy with his work. 

* * *

  
  
  
  
  


“You’re around here an awful lot, man,” Henry says after a long beat of silence and Marcus glances down at the two of them, had been staring off blankly into the evening sun, leaning on the end of his rake. 

He perks up. “I could say the same about y’all.” 

Henry shrugs, a “that’s fair” gesture, because it’s true. He and Kissel have been hitting Angel Point Cemetery more than ever, 3 times that week, mostly to hang out and eat lunch, check out the graves, but they’d also fucked around with a ouija once Ben had given up blubbering about scary past experiences. During their visits, they’ve seen this groundskeeper lurking behind headstones, watching them how librarians watch rambunctious youths. 

“People die every day,” Marcus adds. 

Ben raises his eyebrows, doesn’t say anything. 

Henry laughs punchedly. “No way you’re gettin’  _ that _ much service.” 

“Well, you’re right. I don’t just dig graves. I also upkeep.” He pats his hip and Ben and Henry both look over to see his tool belt, a big pair of clippers hanging there. It should be obvious by his rake, the work they’ve undoubtedly seen him doing. “If you haven’t noticed, this is a biiig piece of property.” 

“Yeah, that’s why we kick it here.” 

Marcus bobs his head in a nod, slices his eyes over at the two to get a better look, remember their faces later. It’s the first time he’s approached them, first time talking. 

The taller man is exceptionally so, much bigger than Marcus in all aspects, broad and long, his shoulders enough to make a mountain envious under the cape of his light wash denim jacket. His face is dusted with a darker-than-his-hair stubble, a mustache vaguely prominent on his upper lip. Kind eyes, like he laughs a lot, Marcus notes. A soft, childish face that makes his height less intimidating. 

The shorter man is squat and reminds Marcus of a leprechaun. He has a trimmed ginger beard that compliments his features well, balances the expanse of forehead that peeks out from under his backwards black hat, probably hides a soft jawline. Something about him cagey, like he wants to appear mysterious, angers easily, but is also quick to throw that away for the sake of a joke. He’s in a blue and pink striped button-up. 

“You boys got names?” 

“Do  _ you _ ?” 

Marcus laughs, should have expected that. “Yes, actually. Marcus Parks. Local grave digger and groundsman.” 

“Henry.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at his friend, says, “That’s Ben.” 

“Well, nice to finally know you.” 

“Nice to know you, too,” Ben says politely. 

“Yeah, you too, Crypt Keeper.” Henry grabs the black backpack in front of him and unzips it, pulls out a plastic sandwich holder and passes it to Ben, pulls out a second. Henry pauses then asks, “You mind, man? We’re not doing anything wrong here and you’re breathing down our necks.” 

Marcus purses his lips, taken aback by the bluntness of the request, but he shrugs, and grabs his rake. He’s experienced this sort of thing before, probably off-putting in his sullied work coveralls, his gaunt face. He had certainly heard Henry call him ghoulish, so why be surprised? “Sure. You two have a nice time.” 

“Weird thing to say to someone in a cemetery!” Henry shouts, mouth bulging with bread and what looks like several types of cold cuts. 

Marcus smiles over his shoulder at them, already a good few plots away, and calls out, “No littering! And we lock up at dusk!” 

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Back again?”

Ben and Henry both startle visibly, shoulders going up to their ears, and Ben laughs when he sees it’s Marcus, breathes out, “Oh, Jesus,” softly while Henry curses, balling his small, fat hands in his lap, the book he was reading dropped into the grass.

“Do you work in a cemetery  _ because _ you like scaring people or did the scaring people- does that part come as a  _ symptom _ of working in a cemetery?” 

“Chicken and the egg type situation,” Ben adds before Marcus can answer. 

Marcus smirks, amused from getting a rise out of them. A little demonstration in revenge for being called a ghoul and shooed off the other day. “I don’t think a lineage can be traced,” he says. “They go hand in hand.” 

Henry’s eyes sweep over Marcus and stop at the ground, noticing the shovel. “Oh, shit. Funeral today?” 

Marcus looks down at his shovel, too, wiggles the tip into the earth gently back and forth. “Tomorrow.”

“You still dig by hand?” Ben asks. “I thought it was all - I thought the machines did it these days.”

“Backhoe loaders, usually, but sometimes I get real Jesus freak types who want me to dig it by hand. Think it somehow - think it’ll bring their dead ‘closer to earth’ or some shit if I do it.” He shakes his head, smiles. “But, hell, I ain’t complaining. Gives me something to do.” 

“Morbid,” Henry says, wrinkling his nose. “Though… weirdly badass.”

“Hey, I like the smell of dirt. Nothing morbid about a man diggin’ a hole.” 

Henry sputters a laugh, slaps his chest. “Yeah, but the fuckin’  _ hole _ you’re digging is for a dead body. You haven’t forgotten that part, have you?”

Marcus smirks ear to ear, stabs his shovel deep into the ground with one solid thrust of his right arm, successfully startling the two of them all over again. “Oh, you two don’t even know the best part yet: I assist in  _ embalming _ , too.” 

“Ohhhh holy  _ shit _ !” Henry exclaims. His eyes light up and he sputters on his words, too excited to get them out properly, “You mean like, you’ve  _ seen _ bodies and shit? Touched ‘em and everything?”

“Oh,  _ God _ , Henry,” Ben groans, “don’t say it like  _ that _ .” 

Marcus snickers, pulls his shovel up from the dent he’s made. “Yep. I’ve helped with the last 3 embalmings in town. You haven’t heard of Parks Funeral Home?”

“Oh, wait, that’s you?” Ben asks, realization dawning on him. 

“Mhm. Family business. I like the grounds work better, though, a lot less math and certification requirements.” 

"Jesus, you've got a golden throne of death ahead of you!" Henry chirps. "Could we ever… ya know, get in on that action?" 

Marcus pulls a face, wipes the back of his hand over his brow, and it comes away glistening with sweat, streaked with little lines of dirt. He wants a water. He should be back at the plot, make sure he measured it right. "The action?" he asks. 

“Yeah, like, could we observe? Isn’t that a thing hospitals do? Watch over surgeries? We could do the same, but for-for a body!” 

Marcus exhales from his nose. “No way, man. Huge privacy rules and shit. Morgues are real scared about necrophiles, too.”

Ben’s face scrunches up in disgust, looking like a kid who’s been offered boiled vegetables. “Necrophiles?” he asks. 

Henry “ohohoho”s, absolutely delighted.

“Mhm,” Marcus hums. “52% of necrophiles work in morgues. I mean, makes sense, if you consider it. Need access to the bodies somehow.” 

“Are you confessing something to us?” Henry pokes, seeming half serious, half joking. Marcus has a hard time reading him. 

He grins, lopsided. “Nope. I like my partners warm an’ writhin’!”

Ben groans, which seems like it’s going to be a recurring thing. “Oh, God, Marcus…”

Henry busts out a laugh, shouts, “Thatta boy! Man, I was wrong about you, Crypt Keeper, you got a good sense of humor!” 

Marcus smiles harder, glad to have won over at least an inkling of Henry’s approval, secretly glad to have grossed Ben out, amused in a devilish way because it’s just so easy. He checks his watch and whistles, says, “I gotta hop back to that grave. Won’t dig itself.” 

“Can we at least observe that?” Henry asks and Ben looks like he’s going to protest. 

Marcus shrugs. “Don’t see why not. It’ll just be me digging a hole, though, so you’re aware. No body or nothing yet.” 

Henry picks up his book, shoves it in the black bag he’s always got with him, and hops to his feet, waves an arm at Ben for him to get up, too. “Better than what Kissel had planned here,” he mutters.

“Oh?” 

Ben rolls his eyes, gives Henry a jab in the side with his elbow, says, “Can it,” then looks over at Marcus with a sheepish smile. “I like… taking pictures of birds.” 

“Ohhh.” Marcus giggles. So, Ben is cute and dorky. And apparently his last name is Kissel. Marcus takes note of all of the above, leads the way with the two following behind them, shovel slung over his shoulder. 

“I have the feeling this is the start of something beautiful,” Henry says after a minute, voice dreamy. 

Marcus has that feeling, too. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


“I swear, dude, you’re part gopher or mole or some shit,” Henry comments.

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” Marcus says from down in his pit. He’s really grimy now, dirt caked thick under his nails, hair hanging wetly over his face, damp with sweat. It feels good, the ache in his muscles as he lifts his shovel, the knowing that comes with something this intense, that he’s tackled a large task and finished it. Or nearly finished. 

“Ben, hand me that pickax, will you?” 

Ben lowers it into the grave and Marcus starts in on breaking the last few rocks he can see, scoops up the shattered bits and tosses them out. 

“It was a compliment, by the way,” Henry says, peering into the hole. “I’ve never seen a man dig like you do.” 

“And has that compliment turned into flirting now? Because that’s big praise for me.” 

Henry fakes a giggle, batting his eyelashes, and he waves a coy hand, says sweetly, “Oh, Marcus Parks, you charmer, you caught me! Wanna jump the bones of Crypt Keeper himself!”

Marcus laughs and takes a step back to survey his work. The sides are neat, more precise than how loaders do it, and he figures it looks nice enough, hands Ben back the pickax, offers the shovel to Henry. 

“I thought graves were typically 6 feet deep,” Ben says.

“Nah, not so much anymore. Standard is 4 feet.” Marcus plants his hands firmly on the grass and goes to hoist himself out, but Ben takes hold of his wrist and helps pull him out, smiles once Marcus is back on ground level with them. “It varies,” he adds. “A foot and a half and beyond is typical.”

“Still. 4 feet is fuckin’ impressive!” Henry marvels. “Did it in crazy fast time. I mean, it’s barely even sunset.” 

Marcus dusts his hands on the legs of his coveralls, but it doesn’t do much. He needs to go home and shower. “Well, thank you, Henry. It’s… nice being appreciated like this for once.” 

The sunset is pretty, painting their faces a deep orange as it starts to really blaze.

“Yeah, I bet! Not much of an audience around, huh?” 

Marcus smiles and gets to his feet, cracks his back. “Not often.” He looks around, at Ben and Henry sitting there, the pile of dirt and rubble he has to move before he can pack up and lock the gates. “Alright, boys, just have to wheelbarrow this mess and then we’ll call it a day.”

Henry and Ben offer to help and after arguing the whole walk to his tool shed, Marcus finally gives in and lends the boys his spare shovels. It goes quicker with them helping, but Marcus feels bad since they’re not getting paid and it is manual labor. Regardless, Henry cracks jokes the entire time, a real ham, and Ben is more talkative than Marcus has ever seen, asking questions and goofing along with Henry. Marcus learns that they’re roommates and longtime friends, and also that Henry works at a CVS. Ben mentions being interested in politics. 

Wheelbarrow full, ground clean of dirt as good as they can get it, Marcus says, “I think that’s a day.” 

Henry grins. “Looks like we’re closing a little late. Would be a fuckin’ bummer if we didn’t take this opportunity to slink around some since the sun’s already down.”

“Henry…,” Ben groans. He doesn’t seem keen on the idea. 

“Nope,” Marcus says, lifting the wheelbarrow to return it to the shed. He’ll deal with the dirt tomorrow, probably spread it in the gardens on the far east side. “I’m fuckin’ beat and I’m headed home.” 

Henry makes a mouth-fart, but doesn’t press it any further. 

“Henry, don’t be rude,” Ben scolds like a mother hen. 

“I’m not bein’ rude! I’m lookin’ for opportunities, you fuckin’ pleb!”

Marcus snorts, wheels the dirt into the shed, tosses in the shovels. He locks the door and waves his arm down the trail towards the entrance. 

It’s getting dark so Ben takes out his phone and turns on the flashlight. He and Marcus walk close side by side while Henry takes the lead. There’s something attractive about Ben, Marcus thinks. The apparent softness to him despite his size, the way his face scrunches up when he genuinely laughs at something Henry says. Marcus hopes he’ll see them again. 

At the gate, Henry and Ben linger around while Marcus gets out his key ring, locks the big wrought iron gate. 

“So, uh,” Henry says. “I got work tomorrow, but like, we’ll probably see you around.” 

“Maybe you could come over sometime,” Ben offers sweetly. 

“Do you guys have Texas Chainsaw?”

Henry asks, “What?”

“Texas Chainsaw,” Marcus repeats, turning around to look at them. “I figured we could watch it together.”

“Oh. Oh, fuck yeah, man! We got all sorts of horror. Texas Chainsaw Massacre for sure.” Henry is beaming and Marcus knew he’d react like this, from what he overheard the other day to the Michael Myer’s shirt he’s wearing now. 

Marcus heads over to his truck, says, “It’s a date then. Whenever I see you two around next, we can plan something.” 

Ben smiles that soft smile of his, backing towards a car that is either his or Henry’s. “Sounds good!” 

Marcus gets in his truck and is letting the engine warm when Henry rolls over to him with his windows down, shouts, “Hey, Crypt Keeper!” When Marcus looks up at him, he yells, “Hail yourself!” 

Marcus tosses up a rock on sign, shouts, “Hail Satan!” 

And then he’s alone in the cemetery parking lot.   
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Marcus is up early the next morning. He showers a second time, just to make sure he’s fully removed the layer of dirt that seems to always be clinging to him, and gets dressed in his best funeral suit. He has 3. Dark brown, navy blue, and black. 

For this particular Monday, he picks navy blue. 

It’s a short drive to the funeral home, less than 10 minutes, and he goes in to find his dad already setting up the casket in the viewing room. He makes himself busy, fluffing the little floral pillows on the couches, checking to be sure the tissues are set out in convenient places. 

“Got a call, boy,” his dad calls from the parlor. 

Marcus perks up and checks the wall clock, sees it’s not even 8 am. Technically, they don’t open for another 40 minutes, with the exception of the family that planned and paid for the services, who are welcome in early to look over things. It’s possible it’s them, Marcus hasn’t seen them pull into the lot yet. 

“For me?” 

His dad nods and holds out the sleek black phone, gives it a shake. “They’re on the line now. Don’t keep them waitin’.” 

Marcus takes the phone and says, automated because it’s habitual and his father hasn’t told him who’s on the end of the line, “Parks Funeral Home, Marcus speaking.” 

“Oh shit, so you  _ weren’t _ lyin’!” Henry chirps, laughing. “You sound good when you ain’t slingin’ dirt, real professional with that greeting.”

Marcus blinks. “Uh. Thank you,” he says. He glances over at his dad who is still there behind the desk, setting out the sign-in book, looking for a proper pen, and he turns away, cups his and over the mouthpiece. “What are you calling for?”

Henry snorts then burps, and Marcus winces. “Kissel wants to get his meat hooks in ya.” 

From afar, Ben’s voice can be heard, small and high, whining, “Henry!” 

Henry continues, unbothered, asks plainly, “So… down for movie night, Crypt Keeper?” 

“Did you forget I have a funeral to go to today?” He smiles apologetically over at his father who’s giving him a quizzical look and mouths, “It’s a friend,” which is so unheard of, Marcus doesn’t blame his father for the genuine surprise that makes itself known on his face. 

“Oh, fuck. Yeah. Well, how long does that run for? Cuz I head to work at noon and get off at 7 if you wanna swing by then or something. Or we could pick you up. Whatever works.” Henry burps again and it’s followed by a slurping sound, probably coffee. 

Marcus shakes his head. “Did you guys  _ Google _ the home’s number to just  _ hoping _ I’d be in?”

“Uh, yeah? Pretty much. I told you, man, Kissel wants in on that Grave Digger sausage you’re packin’.” 

A giggle escapes Marcus, can’t help it, and he drops his eyes away from his dad, knows he shouldn’t be laughing when there’s a body set out one room over. “Okay. Well. Services are from 10 ‘till 2 and then the burial is at 3. That usually takes an hour or so and I’ll be on the grounds after that.” 

“Shit. You got a phone, Parks? I think this would go better if we just texted.”

Marcus sighs and searches around for a pen on the desk near to him, finds one in one of the drawers. “Just give me yours. I don’t want you hooligans texting me the whole service.” 

Henry agrees and he recites his number, then Ben’s, and Marcus scribbles them out on the back of one of their business cards. 

“Alright, Crypt Keeper, you go get that good green. We’ll see you around later.” 

“Okay,” Marcus says, and his father is giving him that look again, so he adds, “Thank you for calling. Viewing hours will be starting soon.” 

“Pfft. Hail Satan, you fucker.” And with that, Henry hangs up. 

Marcus sets the phone on the receiver and exhales, turns over the card between his fingers. In fine, black text “PARKS FUNERAL HOME: CELEBRATION OF LIFE” is printed, a dove stamped into the middle. 

He’s glad his dad doesn’t ask any questions. What would he even say if he did? “ _ Those were just some guys I met at the cemetery _ ”? It’s true, but even to Marcus, it sounds weird when said out loud. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


**Marcus** :  _ I have to go home and change before  _ _   
_ _ coming over. Unless you don’t mind seeing me in  _

_ dirty overalls. _

  
**Marcus: ** _ Or my funeral suit. Your choice, really.  _

**Henry** : _ I’ll ask Ben what gets him fired up.  _

**Henry** :  _ And I thought you weren’t supposed _

_ to text on the clock. Don’t you have grievers  _

_ to comfort?  _

**Marcus** :  _ I’m just the greeter today. And I’ve _

_ snuck off to the bathroom to send this highly _ _   
_ _ important set of texts. _

  
  


From there, Marcus plans to be at Ben and Henry’s house around 8, and Henry gives him their address. 

Next, he texts Ben. He’s been in the bathroom a while now, should be back at his post by the door. He feels like a teenager sneaking out to see a sweetheart. 

**Marcus** :  _ You could come see me now,  _

_ you know, if you’re really as desperate _

_ as Henry made you out to be. _

**Ben** :  _ Are you inviting me to a funeral? _

**Marcus** :  _ Yes. All services are public today. _

**Ben** :  _ If this is flirting, consider me  _

_ absolutely WOOED.  _

Marcus sends three emojis: a coffin, a red heart, and a skull, then clicks his phone off, flushes the toilet so it will seem like he wasn’t in there to text, and runs the water. His hair is combed neatly off to the side and he adjusts his tie, flicks a fleck of lint off his shoulder. 

It’s odd having something to look forward to that doesn’t involve stripping animal bones or digging holes. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Marcus pulls into the small drive and kills his engine, looks over the house. It’s cute enough, though there are no flowers in the yard, no bird feeders or houses, but Ben and Henry don’t seem the type for that kind of thing. Marcus gets out and trots up the front steps, is greeted by a plastic hanged man dangling from a rope pinned to the door, a cheap Halloween decoration you could probably buy at a Walmart. He knocks and takes a step back, rocks on the balls of his feet while he waits. 

Two dogs start going nuts and they sound small, yipping excitedly, and from behind the door, Marcus can hear Ben scold them, a lock audibly switch over. The door opens and there Ben is, holding a fluffy white Pomeranian in his arms, and he smiles that cotton candy smile of his, says, “Oh, hi, Marcus!” 

“Howdy.” He nods at the dog, asks, “And who’s this?” 

“Oh! This is Puffin!” He lifts the dog up under his little dog arms and in a squeaky voice, says, “Hi, Marcus, I’m Puffin! I live with Ben and Henry and Wendy and I’m excited to meet you!” 

Marcus giggles and wheezes and Ben steps out of the way to let him in, and he asks, “Who’s Wendy?” 

Ben points a finger at Henry and the small dog curled up to his left on the couch and Henry shouts, “Crypt Keeper! You made it!” 

Marcus grins and horns his fingers into the rock on sign again, takes a moment to quickly look over the living room he’s stepped into. He notices the posters first: full-size, movie promotion style hung over the couch, one printed with Mothra, the other with Ghostface, SCREAM lettered in dripping blood above his masked face. The couch Henry is lounging on, dressed in a UFO identification shirt, underwear, and white socks. Next to the couch a tall bookcase messy with titles, stacks of books on their sides, some upright. Marcus recognizes some of them, Execution and With An Axe, and he wonders briefly if he’s going to be murdered American Pyscho style. 

“No suit? Thought you wanted to impress Kissel.”

Marcus rolls his eyes and shifts on his feet, wants to sit, but needs to be invited first, like a vampire. “Bad luck to wear funeral suits other places than the cemetery. And I thought you’d get a kick outta Swamp Thing.” He tugs the bottom of his shirt out, kind of shimmies his hips. 

From the kitchen area, Ben asks, “Pizza okay?”

Henry and Marcus both chime a yes, though Marcus adds a please to his. 

“Swamp Thing  _ is _ pretty badass. I knew you were cut from the same cloth as us.” He slaps the spot next to him and the dog, Wendy, raises her head from her paws, looks at Marcus as he settles in. “Gotta be, workin’ as a gravedigger.” 

Ben comes in a moment later with a big bowl of popcorn and a bottle of raspberry vodka, which he drinks straight from the bottle when Marcus shakes his head no. Ben sits in an armchair and Henry puts on the movie, shuts off all the lights. Pizza comes sometime later and they all have their fill, eating off paper plates that sog with so much grease, they nearly split like wet paper. 

By the end of the night, Marcus has had three slices of pizza, half a bowl of popcorn, and several mouthfuls of beer, which Henry got from the fridge halfway through the movie. 

“Oh, no way, man, firing squad is the way to go,” Marcus says. “They fuck up injections too much for it to even compare.” Marcus doesn’t remember how they got to talking about the death penalty, but he’s in his element. He reads a lot, history and true crime, makes up little research projects when he’s got time away from work to stay stimulated, needs a constant source to focus his attention. 

Ben shrugs from his chair, Puffin curled contently in his lap. “Well, I think I’d wanna - I think hanging would be the way for me. I mean, with all this weight, I think my neck would snap pretty easy.” 

Marcus giggles and Henry says, “They’d make you  _ pay _ for all that rope, though! Or they’d use a crane! You’d be like executing an  _ elephant _ .” 

Ben rolls his eyes. “Well, at least  _ mine _ would be a spectacle. No one wants to see an angry short man screaming and kicking his way to the electric chair.” He puts a hand over his chest, switches to a hauty voice. “My death would be  _ elegant _ .”

Henry purses his lips and points an accusatory finger. “Who said anything about the electric chair? I want the fuckin’  _ ax _ , man!” He raises his arms over his head and pretends to swing an ax around wildly then drops them down, air guitars over his stomach, riffing with his mouth. “Can you imagine the blood shooting from my fuckin’ neck? That alone is worth it!”

“Might take a few swings, though,” Marcus points out. 

“Who cares? Me screamin’ will just add to the horror of it all. All I want is to make a huge messy fuckin’ scene if I’m goin’ out. The Zebrowski Splatter, they’ll call it.” 

Marcus and Ben both explode into laughter and Marcus is glad these misfits found him, is having a great time just hanging out and talking about the most morbid shit they can turn into hypotheticals. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Henry starts, voice rising excitedly. “Fuck, marry, kill. Chikatilo, Ramirez, and Gein.” 

Marcus pauses to think about it and Ben asks, starting to get slurry, “Who’s Chikatilo?”

Henry huffs. “The question wasn’t even for you, Kissel.” He sounds like a bully on a playground and Ben flips him off, makes Marcus chitter with another snicker at how childish they are, almost like an old married couple with their constant bickering, though Henry always seems to go harder on Ben than Ben does on Henry. 

“Kill Chikatilo ‘cause I think he’d be more likely to cut off a nipple or get my dick or something. And then uh, fuck Ramirez because I guess I could hail Satan during it or whatever and that’s not as bad as Chikatilo chompin’ on me. And marry Gein ‘cause all he wanted to be was a house husband, or wife. Would make me furniture, probably the type to pick flowers for you.”

Henry nods, takes a long sip from his beer, looking like he’s considering these answers carefully. “Damn, Marcus, you already have that one in the chamber? That’s all solid as hell.” 

Marcus giggles, flashes him a smile. “Digging graves gives you a lot of time to be alone with your thoughts.” 

They do a few more rounds of FMK before Marcus says he should be getting back to his place and Ben offers to walk him to his truck. Marcus doesn’t argue and gets up, finds his shoes jammed under the couch. 

On the porch, under the single light that’s been flicked on, Ben puts a hand on Marcus’ shoulder and with a great slurring of his words, says, “I’d really like to see you again, you know.” 

Marcus smiles. “Oh, I’m sure you will.” 

“Not-Not at the cemetery,” Ben clarifies, as if Marcus has misunderstood. “Around here.” 

Marcus giggles, gives him a playful punch in the arm. “Yes, Ben, I know. We can hang out again sometime soon.” 

Ben breaks into a dreamy smile, drops his hand away from Marcus’ shoulder, and starts down the steps, only staggers once. Marcus follows and they reach his truck, look at each other a moment, awkwardly silent before Ben stumbles forward and wraps Marcus in a huge hug, squeezes him tight. 

“Oh!” Marcus chirps, surprised, but he gives into the hug, claps Ben on the back a few times. “It was nice seeing you, Ben.” 

Ben mumbles something drunkenly, a “goodnight” somewhere in it, still smiling, and returns to the steps to watch Marcus back out. Marcus spots Henry watching from the window, Wendy and Puffin by his side. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Marcus checks his phone when he gets home, has a feeling in his bones that there’s a text waiting for him, and the feeling proves right when he sees Henry has messaged him. 

  
  


**Henry** :  _ Should have warned you: _

_ Ben is a hugger. _

**Henry** :  _ Hope that didn’t scare you _

_ off for good.  _

**Marcus**: _Quite the opposite._

**Marcus** :  _ It takes a lot more than that  _

_ to scare me off. Don’t forget where I work. _

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boys night!!! :-)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a relationship emerges

A pattern falls quickly into place within the next couple of months: Marcus embalms, ground keeps, and grave digs, and when their schedules line up, he spends his time at the Zebrowski-Kissel household. Marcus finds out that Ben works for a local news station, doing small reporting jobs and tiny articles for town journals, trying to strong-arm his way into politics from there. On days when Ben’s on-air and Henry is off from CVS and Marcus doesn’t have any bodies to deal with, Marcus and Henry lounge on the couch and watch Ben’s segments, pass a bong back and forth with the dogs in the next room and laugh over how big Ben looks next to everyone else. 

Besides this, Marcus goes over for movie nights often, almost every weekend and he eventually starts to bring his dog, Georgie, along, too, lets her meet Puffin and Wendy. They go through tons of classic horror and it evolves into docuseries and conspiracy theory programs pretty naturally, Marcus learning that Henry is an over the top tinfoil hat type when it comes to aliens, and once Marcus has been exposed to that, Henry introduces him to chaos magic and various branches of satanism. They draw sigils and hail Baphomet and Ben watches from his favored armchair with Puffin cuddled up to him, commenting on how weird all of it is, but always breaks into a genuine laugh when Henry hams up a bit or Marcus teases him about being boring. 

They text a lot, too. Henry organizes a groupchat and Marcus has reason to check his phone for once, scrolling through overly specific JFK and Roswell memes while he sits for lunch break in the cemetery, exhaling through his nose with amusement. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


It’s the first snowfall of the season when Ben visits Marcus alone at the cemetery for the first time. It’s only a dusting of very fine snow that melts as soon as it touches the dead, yellowed grass, but surprised at how soon it’s coming on this year, Marcus hops to burlapping the bushes and shrubs, and that’s exactly what he’s doing, squatted next to a headstone, when Ben approaches him. 

“Heya, Marcus,” he greets sweetly. 

Marcus squints up and smiles, goes back to tying twine around the base of the trunk he’s working on. “Oh, hey, Ben.” He looks back over his shoulder a second later, asks, “No Henry?” 

“Uh, not today,” he says. “He’s at work right now, probably restraining from ripping a customer's head off.” 

Marcus snorts and stands, admires his handy work before moving onto the next plot, and Ben follows. Marcus notes what he’s wearing: a cream-colored duster jacket with big black buttons, blue jeans, and some hightops. His face is completely clean-shaven, which surprises Marcus, having only seen him with some form of facial hair since meeting him, but he likes it, how it makes his face look both soft and defined, a faux intellectual type that would probably preach to him politics without asking. 

“Uh, actually, Marcus, I came here because I have something to ask you.” 

Marcus pulls out another burlap sack, whips it in the air a few times to get the mouth open, then slings it over a bush, starts to cinch it shut. “Shoot.” 

“Would you want to get dinner sometime with me? Or maybe see a movie? I mean, I know you usually come over to watch something with me and Henry, but I thought maybe we could go out somewhere by ourselves for-”

“Are you asking me on a date?” Marcus asks, turning around to look up at Ben, but he off centers himself and falls on his ass, landing on the cold ground with a decent thump.

Ben flushes bright red and nods. “Well, oh, yes, I suppose I am, but you don’t have to-to think of that  _ way _ . It could just be a night out and we’ll see where it goes from there and-”

“You don’t have to explain that much,” Marcus interrupts again. “I’ll go on a date with you, Ben.” 

“Oh!” Ben peeps, clearly surprised, his dark eyes wide. “Uhm. Wow. What would you like to do?”

Marcus smiles up at him, that ghoulish smirk he’s perfected, and says, “Just give me a day and I’ll pick you up at 6.” 

“Pick  _ me _ up? I thought  _ I _ was asking  _ you _ on a date here!” 

Marcus giggles and shakes his head, finally gets off the ground and moves on with his burlapping, and once again, Ben follows. “Yep, and I’ve agreed, so just tell me when you want me to pick you up.”

Marcus knew this was coming: that Ben was eventually going to make a move or ask him out. They text a lot, typically when Marcus has gotten home and they’re both in bed, jokingly flirty, but it’s never crossed the line to sexual or serious. A few times Ben has joined him and Henry on the couch in the middle of watching a movie, and their arms touched, knees would knock together, and it seemed that Ben was eager for that kind of thing, any kind of contact.

“Uhm. Alright. I’m free Friday night if you are.” 

Marcus nods and he stands, offers his dirty hand out to Ben, who pauses to look down at the gesture quizzically, but he shakes it nonetheless, and Marcus says, “Good. It’s a date then.” 

“Should I be worried? About oh, you know, what a date with a  _ mortician _ means?” 

Marcus snickers, leans over, picks up his stack of burlap. “Oh, extremely,” he teases. “Why do you think I’m picking  _ you _ up? I have to make sure the mortuary table is properly sanitized before we can get on to any  _ activities _ .” 

Ben wrinkles his nose. “Oh, Marcus Parks…,” he groans, which is not the first time he’s said his name in disgust. “Don’t make me regret this.” 

“Aw, c’mon, man, learn to take a joke.” 

Ben snorts, rolling his eyes, and Marcus is about to turn away, continue on with his work, when Ben’s face lights up with some realization and he grabs Marcus by the shoulder, says, “Wait. I got you these.” He fishes around in the front left pocket of his jacket, comes up with two crinkling plastic bags. 

Gummy candy body parts (brain, bloody foot, finger, and ear, eyeball, and fangs) and Trolli sour gummy spiders. 

“Oh!” Marcus gasps excitedly, his turn to be surprised. “Thank you, Ben…”

“Thank Henry, too. CVS got their shipment of Halloween candy this week and he saw them and well, thought of you.” 

“He must know the way to a man’s heart is through cannibalism.” 

Ben smiles, seeming to admire Marcus tenderly, his eyes soft and kind with warm approval and it’s almost enough to make Marcus squirm, his face going red with a creeping blush. He fiddles with the candies, squishing a blue brain between his fingers through the thin plastic. 

“So Friday,” Ben confirms.

“Friday.” 

“Okay. Uh. Good.” 

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


The next day, Thursday, Marcus is repairing a chip in the fountain at the center of the cemetery with epoxy and touch up when Henry visits. 

“Jesus, man, this place must be 3 miles wide. I’ve been lookin’ for you behind every headstone for 40 minutes,” Henry huffs, out of breath and ruddied in the face, plops himself down on one of the benches. 

“Actually,” Marcus says, without looking up from the fountain, “it’s only 24 acres.”

Henry makes a noise with his mouth, mutters, “And what the fuck does  _ that _ mean? What am I? Winnie the Pooh? Do I  _ look _ like a man who knows what an acre is?”

Marcus snickers and asks, “So, what are ya here for? Just came to bitch about my workplace?”

“Nah, nah, nah. Heard Kissel finally sprouted a pair and asked you on a date! And you said yes!” 

Marcus smiles, looks over at Henry and his silly button-up shirt, jet black with neon pink lightning bolts, unbuttoned one button so a sprig of curly chest hair can be seen, the eager, excited set to his body. 

“Yep. Got a date planned tomorrow.” 

Henry claps his hands together, lets out a whoop that turns into a puff of breath in the crisp morning air. “God, my boys… Crypt Keeper and Bigfoot gettin’ it on like God intended.” He grins, shakes his head, drums his hands on his thighs. ”You’re the one taking him out though, right? Kissel said you’ve got extra mysterious plans a-brewin’ in that formaldehyded brain of yours.” 

“Mhm. You guys brought me candy, I’ll bring Ben out for a date. I’d say that’s a fair trade.”

Henry snorts and smiles slyly. “Gotta suck  _ my _ dick then, too, ‘cuz by that logic  _ I’m _ owed. I provided the fuckin’ candy.”

“When I drop Ben back off at the house, get in the truck. I’ll provide a handy.” Marcus says this like they’re discussing the weather, no inflection or lilt to his voice.

“You know what? You’re a good guy, Marcus, offering to service like that, but I don’t swing both ways and I just started seeing the  _ hottest _ chick in the  _ motherfuckin’ _ galaxy and I can’t jeopardize that for a little monster mash.”

“ _ You _ ? And the  _ hottest _ chick in the galaxy? She got a uh, dwarf fetish?” 

Henry mimics loading a shotgun and blowing Marcus’ head clean off, accompanied by a spittled mouth sound to get the real effect, and Marcus giggles, rolls his eyes up into the back of his head.

They chat a while longer, about this girl Natalie and how smoking hot she is, her heels and gothic outfits, her long, slender legs that Henry wants to climb “like a randy squirrel”, and slip back into Ben talk some minutes later. Henry gives Marcus a fatherly talk about how if he breaks a Kissel Heart, he’ll experience a Zebrowski Rage, and Marcus responds solemnly, raises his hand and says he’ll follow the Parks Gentlemen Code. Henry gives him pointers, though he phrases them as warnings, about how Ben likes to cuddle and his sleeping eating, and it’s clear how deeply Henry cares about him; even between the teasing and jocular type joshing, there is a fondness to his voice, a smile in his voice when he talks about Ben like a brother. 

“So I expect nothing but the best from you, Geiner,” Henry says, getting up like he’s fixing to go, checking his watch, “Romance him like yer… like yer raisin’ the dead!”

Marcus puzzles his eyebrows together, but smiles and doesn’t ask. That’s just how Henry talks: weird metaphors and obscure connections and somehow, it makes a shade of sense. “Aye aye, Captain,” Marcus says and he gives a salute. 

That satisfies Henry and he nods, lingers a look at him, seeming to study him in his crouched position by the fountain, then nods once more, and turns away, starts to walk in the direction of the great wrought-iron gate. 

Marcus watches him until he goes down a small slope and disappears.

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Marcus showers twice that Friday, once in the morning then another time when he gets home. He’s paranoid he stinks of formaldehyde and Cidex, scrubs his arms and chest with a bar of Irish Spring wrapped in a washcloth in an attempt to cut through the sharp, surgical smell. Of all days to be embalming, elbow-deep in a corpse, it has to be the same day he has a date. He makes sure to dab some aftershave under his ear just in case he still smells like a morgue.

He cleans under his nails and shaves the fine hairs of his ratstache off. He pulls on his best blue jeans and paws through his shirts, finds mostly bands logos and various horror movie themes, settles on Swamp Thing as a tribute to the first night they hung out. 

“Alright, Georgie, you’re the gal of the house tonight.”

Georgie perks her ears at attention before lowering her head between her paws, letting out a sigh. 

Marcus adjusts his watch, pats his jeans for his keys, then slips out the door, and slings Ben a “On my way” text. 

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


When Ben steps out of the house, Marcus opens the passenger side door and says, “Normally I’d tell you to get in the trunk and not try anything funny, but Henry already came by to warn me about hurting you.”

Ben says, “You don’t have a trunk.” He’s dressed in his usual: denim jacket, a pair of jeans, a Creep shirt, but his hair looks styled, softer maybe, like he’s bought a new conditioner recently. 

Marcus snorts and goes around the truck, gets in on his side. “It was a joke, Ben.”

“And I could easily overpower you,” Ben points out.

“Is that dirty talk?” Marcus asks, grinning over at him as he backs out, and he can swear Ben blushes in the dark of the cab.

They make small talk most of the ride, about Ben’s airtime that week and carefully toeing around anything Marcus has done involving cadavers, and when Ben starts in on Puffin, Marcus wants to drag his hand along the leather bench seat and see if Ben will take it in his own. 

“-and snorin’ like he’s sawing logs and Henry says- Wait, where are we going?” 

Marcus looks over at him. “Asking now? We’re almost there.”

Ben laughs humorlessly, like he’s nervous, and mutters, “I know, that’s what I’m worried about.”

Marcus flicks on his directional and pulls into the empty parking lot, headlights shining beyond the wrought-iron and illuminating a swath of dying grass dotted with headstones. He kills the engine and looks over at Ben, shadow-cast, and says, “We’ve arrived.” 

“I revoke my offering of gummies, Marcus! This is a  _ terrible _ first date!” 

Marcus scoffs and hops out of the truck, grabbing his bottle of Jack Daniel’s from behind the seat and the blanket he wrapped it in. “You haven’t even given me a chance to  _ romance _ you yet!”

Ben sighs and shakes his head, says, “This is-is…  _ twisted _ !” but stands obediently next to Marcus while he sorts through his keys, unlocks the gate so they can step in, then closes it behind them. 

Ben stuffs the rolled blanket under his arm and Marcus grips the bottle by its neck and they hold hands while they walk the grounds, Marcus leading. He’s got a spot in mind and despite his initial protest, Ben doesn’t argue any. 

“Have you seen this one before?” Marcus asks, breaking away from Ben to gesture to the plot: a headstone printed with the likeness of a ouija board, a granite bench jutting out from the side that’s big enough to fit the both of them. 

“Oh, that’s kind of fun…!” Ben chirps and his mouth twitches into a smile. 

Marcus beams, his stomach warm with the approval, and he takes the blanket from Ben, lies in out on the plot, almost certainly above where the casket is set, and they sit, twist open the whiskey.

“So this is a date with a grave digger date, huh?”

Marcus nods, takes a big swig then passes the glass bottle over to Ben. “Mhm. Everythin’ you dreamt it’d be?”

“Well, yes… But what if- what happens if someone sees us and calls the cops?” he asks. 

Marcus snorts and sprawls out on his back to look up at the stars, arms behind his head. “Yeah and? What would they do, Ben? Call my dad and tell him his son, the  _ groundskeeper _ , is on a date?” They’re far into the property anyway and they haven’t turned on any lights, so the odds of being spotted are slim to none.

“Oh. Yeah. Makes sense.” He caps the whiskey and sets it aside, lies down beside Marcus and gazes up at the sky, surprisingly clear aside from a few wispy clouds being pushed quickly along by the wind. 

Marcus trails his fingers over and finds Ben’s hand, grasps it and gives him a gentle squeeze, his heart doing that little, excited flip it does when you’re with someone you really like. “The only worry we’ve got is grave robbers.”

“And necrophiles, apparently.”

“Someone could be both. A Gein type, though he said he never fucked the bodies because they ‘ _ smelled too bad _ ’, but he did admit to placing the severed vagina over his-”

“Marcus,” Ben interrupts. 

“Yes?” 

“That is  _ literally _ the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

Marcus snorts and giggles, squirms an inch closer to Ben and rolls over to look at him. “What? You don’t want to be informed about one of the most  _ infamous _ criminals of our time, who _ , by the way, _ is often  _ wrongly _ labeled as a serial killer! He only had  _ two _ kills and the  _ definition _ is 3 or more with a cooling-off period between-”

“Nerd alert! We got a nerd alert here!” Ben shouts and they both dissolve into a fit of laughter, Ben turning over on his side to look at Marcus, forming a moment of intimate eye contact, faces squinted with giggles. 

They look at each a long minute then turn away shyly, look back to the stars. 

“Thank you,” Marcus says softly, “for asking me out.”

“Oh.” Ben rubs his thumb over the ridge of Marcus’ wrist bone, over his knuckles. “Thank you for saying yes.” 

They sit up and have a few more gulps of whiskey, shuffle over to the headstone and put their hands to it with steepled fingers to form a planchette. They point out what few constellations they know and can locate. They lean their backs to the cold, flat surface of the grave and link fingers again, close enough now that their thighs are touching.

Marcus wants to ask if he smells like embalming fluids, but figures it’s best not to.

Somehow, they end up on the bench and Marcus is pulled effortlessly into Ben’s lap, nose to nose, and Marcus’ heart jackhammers in his chest, so unused to human touch, (alive, that is) he’s not sure what to do with his limbs.

“Hello there,” he whispers, hands to Ben’s shoulders.

Ben smiles big and his eyes drop to Marcus’ lips very obviously. “Hello, Marcus,” he whispers back.

It seems natural, like perhaps Ben is anticipating the action, so Marcus tilts down and meets his lips, kisses Ben softly a few seconds, pulls away, watches his eyes flutter open. Ben tastes like whiskey so he assumes he does, too.

“Goodness,” he breathes and Marcus giggles quietly, draws his hands up so he’s cupping Ben’s face, prickly with day-old stubble. 

Ben leans in, closing the small gap between them, and they hold the kiss longer this time, parting their lips slightly, but not enough to be more than innocent, no tongue. Marcus shifts forward, tries to position his legs better, and Ben pulls him closer by the hips, gets Marcus to blush and breaks their kiss. The way their seated, Marcus has enough height on Ben to rest his chin in his hair, and Ben nestles his face to Marcus’ chest, inhales deeply. 

Anxiously, Marcus says, “I hope I don’t smell like formaldehyde.”

Ben snickers and breathes in again, nose poking gently into the spot between Marcus’ nipples. “Nope. You smell… good. Like Old Spice or something.” 

“Thank, Christ,” he breathes, and he leans back so he’s seated properly in Ben’s lap, looking up at him rather than being perched on his knees. “Hi again.”

Ben kisses his forehead. “You don’t have to greet me every time, you know.”

“It’s nice having an audience that responds for once.”

Ben wrinkles his nose and pulls Marcus into a big hug, squeezes him tight, saying, “I don’t think I’ll  _ ever _ get used to  _ that _ kind of talk.”

They end up kissing again and when Ben opens his mouth, Marcus presses his tongue against his teeth, gets a hum out of him that warms the heat pooling in his stomach. Marcus notices Ben’s erection pressing on him at some point and he knows his jeans are tenting, too, and he gingerly rakes his fingers down Ben’s front, strokes him through his pants. 

Ben gasps into Marcus’ mouth and that's more than encouraging, strokes him again. 

“This feels like-like, boinking in the church,” Ben whispers. 

“The dead aren’t much of voyeurs.” 

“God is.” 

They both smile at that, knowing full well neither of them really believe in anything like that one way or another, then resume their kissing and groping, Ben’s hands finding place cupped to Marcus’ crotch.

He rolls his hips and grinds on him, one hand in Ben’s hair, the other stroking Ben through his jeans and, Marcus feels feverish with want, can’t remember the last time someone has touched him like. A hand curls under Marcus’ ass, mouths working against each other languidly, humming and moaning softly at certain touches. 

Marcus doesn’t want to cream his jeans and things are getting heated quick. He starts to ease up and Ben understands, slows the kissing, softens his touches until they cease. Ben doesn’t argue or ask and Marcus doesn’t feel the need to apologize for not wanting to go further, so he doesn’t. Marcus turns around and settles into Ben’s lap, Ben’s boner pressed to him until it goes down. Ben wraps his arms around Marcus. 

“This has been nice,” Ben murmurs. 

“Most fun you’ve had in a cemetery?”

Ben chuckles, squeezes Marcus, something he’s obviously fond of. “Yep. Easily my number one.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in some ep, marcus says he brought a date to a cemetery with a bottle of whiskey and fingered them so that's what inspired this lmao what a ghoul 
> 
> next chapter is probably gonna be like, pure smut


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chap! some feelings + smut 
> 
> potential tw for more necro talk and possible animal death? (it's marcus' bone collecting)

Marcus wakes up the next morning to a tagged post on Instagram by Ben. It’s him posed in front of the ouija style headstone. His hands are triangled into a planchette, mid-laugh from whatever it was Ben was joking about. His dark eyes are catching the flash of Ben’s phone, glowing red orbs in the middle of his face. The candidness of it is nice, the slight grain to it from the low lighting, the way Marcus’ teeth are showing. 

Ben’s caption reads: Killer night with a super spooky dude! 

Marcus likes the post and clicks his phone off, lays it on his bare chest, and smiles up at the ceiling. 

He can’t wait to see Ben again. 

He can’t wait to kiss Ben again. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


3 days before Halloween, Marcus introduces Ben to his dad.

Or rather, with how it plays out, Ben introduces himself to Marcus’ dad. 

Marcus is downstairs, below the funeral home, mopping the tile floor of the mortuary after a day of embalming and is greatly looking forward to changing out of his scrubs, his cloth facemask itching behind his ears, when his dad calls down, “Marcus! Looks like your ride is here!” 

“Oh, fuck,” Marcus mutters. Ben’s 20 minutes early. Marcus hasn’t mentioned they’re dating yet to anyone in his family. “Be up in a moment!” he hollers back. He finishes mopping, pushing all the water towards the little silver drain in the center of the floor, quickly sanitizes. He wrestles out of his dirty scrubs, pulls off his white latex gloves, and flicks the lights of the mortuary off, heads up the stairs hoping he doesn’t look too disheveled. 

Ben is standing by the glass-and-wood folding front doors with his hands politely clasped in front of himself, in that cream-colored button-down jacket he wore the day he asked Marcus out, face shaved smooth other than his mustache. He smiles over at Marcus when he comes trotting up the stairs, says, “Well, hello, Crypt Keeper.” 

Marcus bares his teeth in a ghoulish grin and says, “Hello, Benjamin.” He glances over at his father who is behind the front desk, half-smiling, looking at them expectantly.

Marcus says, “Dad, this is Ben, my boyfriend.” It’s funny to say. So far, only Henry (and Natalie) have really heard them use the term and even then, they’re cautious and shy over it, blushing school kids, covering their mouths with giggles. 

Marcus’ dad smiles, nods shortly. “Him and I established that while you were finishin’ up down there.” He pauses, watches as Marcus slides comfortably over to Ben, Ben’s arm going around his son’s shoulder like muscle memory. “Now, are you the one who calls asking for Marcus here?” he asks Ben.

“Oh. Uh.” Ben glances down at Marcus, confused a moment, then is hit with realization and chuckles, embarrassed. “No, uh, that must be Henry. I’m terribly sorry about his- about his shenanigans.”

Marcus adds, “They’re roommates, Henry and Ben.” 

The conversation continues for only a few minutes longer before Ben and Marcus say goodbye and make their exit to the parking lot, getting into Ben’s car. Marcus grabs his black hoodie from the back seat, slips it on. It smells like Ben.

“Jesus,” Marcus exhales, leaning his head back on the headrest, eyes shut. “I introduce my first partner of _years_ and Dad’s more concerned with Henry’s fuckin’ _crank_ _calls_.” 

Ben giggles, shakes his head. He starts the car and tells Marcus to put his seatbelt on. Marcus listens.

“Well, at least he seemed to like me. Or I mean,  _ I _ got that impression. He’s your father. What do you think the verdict is?” 

Marcus smiles. He opens the center console and grabs his vape, rolls down the window because he knows Ben doesn’t fully approve of the habit in the first place. “He likes ya,” he says. “As long as you’re a warm body, he doesn’t care where I’m puttin’ my dick.” 

Ben wrinkles his nose, makes a face over at Marcus. “ _ That’s _ what you have to say about the situation?”

“Any father would be proud his son is mackin’ on Ben Kissel,” he says. “ _ Especially _ when the fear of his kid being a necrophile is breathing down his neck!” 

“You  _ have _ to stop with that,” Ben gripes. He rolls to a gentle stop at a sign.

Marcus grins. “52%, Benjamin! 52%!” He wriggles over to Ben, leaning across the console to tilt his mouth up expectantly for a kiss. He purses his lips like a fish.

Ben sputters, puts a hand to his chest. He pushes Marcus back gently, playfully, says, “Oh,  _ no _ way, Geiner. You’re  _ showering _ before you get your hands on me.”

Marcus shrugs, slinks back into his seat like a pouting child. He sucks on his vape for a long drag, exhales a few fat clouds out the window. “I  _ do _ wear gloves, you know. And scrubs! There’s no direct contact. There are rules and regulations that go into it.” 

“Uhuh. And I’m only, what? 3 degrees separated from dead bodies here?” He clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Too close for me!” 

“You knew full well what you were getting into when you asked me out,” Marcus reminds. “Mortician and grave digger and all.”

“Mhm. But there are  _ rules _ and  _ regulations _ that go into dating me, you know. And one of them is  _ no _ kissing after embalming.” 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


“I can’t believe you bought a  _ wig _ for this,” Ben says. 

“I can’t believe  _ you _ grew your mustache out for this,” Marcus teases, smirking. He takes a step back and squints down at Ben, who is seated on the edge of his bathtub. He glances over at his open phone, leans back in with his small trimming scissors, and continues his work. “And hey,” he says softly, so close to Ben’s face, “you shouldn’t be all  _ that _ surprised. You know how  _ thorough _ I like to be.” 

There’s a pause where Marcus takes reference from his phone again and Ben says, “I can’t believe Kemper ever thought to-to wear his mustache like this. The weird split middle? His therapist should’ve known he was sick from  _ that _ alone!”

“He’s still alive, you know,” Marcus murmurs, setting the scissors aside. He grabs some styling product and squeezes a dollop into his palm, lathers his hands. “You could probably write to him and ask.” 

“No, thank you, it’s bad enough I’m being him for Jackie’s party.” 

Marcus runs his hands through Ben’s hair, tries to mimic the photo of Ed the best he can. “Well, you’re the perfect size for it.”

Ben snorts. “Is this when I’m supposed to say you’re the perfect size to be Dahmer? Because you’re not, just so you’re aware. He-He had a whole full inch on you.”

“Well, Kemper has two full inches on you, but I’m workin’ with what I got.” Marcus steps back and beams, looking Ben over. “Alright, Kemper, button that shirt and I think you’re ready.” 

Ben dips his chin down and starts fastening the buttons to his blue shirt. 

Marcus steps in front of the mirror, rinses his hands. He adjusts his wig. It’s plasticky under his fingers, but from a glance, it’s fine. He’s only going to be wearing it one night anyway. 

“I can’t believe they had this thing at Goodwill,” he comments, tugging at the shirt he’s got on: white button-up with dark stripes, a high collar. “It looks almost exactly like the one Dahmer wore in court.” 

Ben gets up, stands behind Marcus in the mirror. “You really do look a lot like him this way,” he remarks. 

Marcus grins, beaming, and twirls around, places a palm on Ben’s lower stomach. “You make a good Edmund Kemper. Redheaded, but the gel makes it look darker, I think.” 

They kiss, Marcus snickering because he can’t get over how spot-on they look having spent less than $40 for both of them. 

They go into the living room to find Henry on the couch, Weird Science by Oingo Boingo playing from the TV. He’s got on a tattered jacket, weathered jeans, a Jason mask, which he raises up to say, “Jesus, look at you two! You really worked your freak magic on him, Dogmeat.” 

Marcus grins, does a little bow. “Why thank you, 2Real.” He’s still unsure where Henry had gotten the idea for his nickname, not from Fallout, but Marcus likes it a lot regardless. Henry got saddled with 2Real for how blunt he was when they were talking conspiracy theories, dubbed “2 Real 4 U” after a long night of smoking and government containment facility stories. 

Ben mutters, “I never have any idea what you two are talking about,” and goes to take Puffin out before leaving for the party. 

“You and Natalie not doing a couple's costume?” Marcus asks, sitting on the arm of the couch. 

“Oh, we are. She’s being a sexy Freddy Krueger.” He checks his phone, adds, “Speakin-a which, I gotta go pick her up. Can I trust you and Kemper to lock up? Meet us there?” 

Marcus nods, says, “Sure, man. We got it covered.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


The party is great: nothing huge, just friends from around town. Travis, a new kid Ben has started talking to recently, hired to help manage cameras in the newsroom, shows up and introduces himself to Marcus. Holden McNeely’s there, too, which surprises Marcus, used to kick drums for him in college in a band that never really got too far. Turns out he’s mutual friends with Ben and Henry, bound to meet somehow, lives intersecting in several ways. Marcus kicks it off with Jackie immediately, who’s loud and funny, just like Henry, slapping Marcus on the arm and throwing her head back to laugh hysterically when they get to joking. 

The night winds down and Marcus and Ben are both careful with alcohol, knowing they’ll have to drive. Ben had mentioned wanting to stay sober before the party, too, which was so unlike him, Marcus could’ve done a spit-take. He knows why, though, and the reason excites him. 

They hug Jackie goodbye. Ben goes to wrap up with Travis and Marcus leans over the back of Jackie’s couch, says softly to Henry, “I think I’m uh, gonna take Ben back to my place, so don’t be worried if he doesn’t turn up.” 

“Takin’ him back to your apartment? Gonna give him the Dahmer Special?” Henry teases, voice muffled behind his mask, but he grows serious, gaze sincere from behind the plastic eyeholes. “Treat him good, kid. Thanks for lettin’ me know. Don’t wanna have to send the hounds out lookin’ for him stumblin’ around the woods.” 

Marcus snorts, gives Henry an affectionate noogie. “‘Course. Have a wicked Halloween yourself there, Vorhees.” They both horn their fingers into rock on signs and Marcus returns to Ben. 

“Ready to go?” Ben asks.

“Mhm.”

They slip out the front door and standing on the step, Marcus makes his move. “Wanna head back to my place? I have a feelin’ Henry and Natalie will want the house to themselves, if you know what I mean.” 

“Seducing me on Halloween night, Mr. Dahmer?” 

“Sure am. And  _ please _ , Edmund, call me Jeff.” 

They get into Marcus’ truck and Ben sits close to him on the bench seat, arm to arm. He’s warm and smells like Old Spice and hair gel. 

“Well, Jeff, take me to your apartment then. I’m really uh, interested in that fish tank you were telling me about.”

Marcus giggles, backing out of the drive. He puts his arm casually around the back of the bench seat, slides it down to Ben’s shoulders. “ _ And _ my lava lamp. I’m  _ very _ excited to show you my lava lamp.” 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Ben is kissing Marcus heavily by the time they make it to his front door and Marcus doesn’t break away while getting his keys out, blindly trying to find the keyhole. His free hand is curled tightly into the front of Ben’s shirt. He’s worried he’s going to pop a button off. 

“Okay,” Marcus pants, slipping away an inch. “Be warned that my house is a little… different than your average home…” 

“If you’re going to tell me you’re a graverobber, Marcus, you should’ve let me know  _ long _ before this.” Ben is still pressed close to Marcus. He feels like a warm, heavy curtain. 

“No, no, no.” Marcus gets the key in and turns it, pushes the door open with his foot. “Well. Not exactly…” He steps in and Ben straightens up, follows. Marcus flicks on the light and calls Georgie, who comes running from her spot on the couch, sniffing at Ben’s ankles in circles. 

“Firstly, this is Georgie, though I think you two have already met.”

Ben’s face lights up, bisected mustache curling into a wide smile. “We have met! But I’ve never had the honor of seeing her in her own home.” He squats down and baby-talks at Georgie, giggling as she licks at his fingers. Marcus watches, amused. 

Once Ben stands, Marcus lets Georgie out to piss and shows Ben into the kitchen. Ben sits in one of the chairs, lands his eyes on a jar in the center of the table. “Oh. Is this - Marcus, is  _ this _ what you meant when you said your house is ‘different’?” he asks, voice a shade nervous. 

Marcus lifts the jar carefully. “Ben, this is Dracula, the first wet specimen I ever got.” 

“God, you really  _ are _ Jeffery Dahmer…,” Ben breathes. Marcus offers the jar and he takes it, turns it over carefully to look at the small extended wings. 

Georgie whines on the steps so Marcus goes over, lets her in. “No,” he says. “Just because I collect dead things doesn’t mean-”

“Oh,  _ collect _ ? So you have  _ more _ of these things?” 

Marcus returns to the kitchen and crosses around the table, gestures widely with his arms at the display hutch. “And this is only a  _ small _ section of what I’ve got.” 

Ben sets Dracula down, goes over to look into the case. 

Various vials of teeth (human and animal), a wet specimen octopus, a coyote skull, a tiny box lined with purple crushed velvet that holds antique medical needles, a few plastic anatomical models, and a couple bones that Ben can’t identify on his own. 

“Well,” he says slowly. “This is certainly fit for Halloween.” 

“Not scared off?” 

“What? No! I mean, it’s kinda badass! Has Henry seen this? He’d love it!” 

Marcus smiles and he reaches over, touches Ben on the hand. “I’m sure I’ll invite him over some other time…” Marcus has no idea how to get people into his bedroom. He absolutely feels like Jeffrey Dahmer right now, but less experienced, less focused on murder. “Uh, you wanna chill on the couch? Or like, hang out in my room?” 

Ben smiles knowingly and leans down, kisses Marcus softly. “We can go to your room if you’d like. I think you still have a lava lamp to show me.” 

Marcus wonders, as they head in the direction of his bedroom, when lava lamp became an innuendo in his life. He pushes open the door, is glad he’d thought to pick up his dirty jeans and straighten out his book shelves that morning. He clicks on the TV so a low light casts over the room, doesn’t bother turning anything on. 

Ben says, “Whoa, are you ever the bookworm.” 

“Yeah. When I’m not on the clock, I’m usually reading something or other.” He shrugs, suddenly bashful. “I’m actually tryin’ to get a thing published right now…”

“Oh! That’s kinda fun!” Ben sits on the edge of his bed, working his brown dress shoes off. “Any topic I’d be into?”

Marcus gets into his lap, a moment of bravery that leaves his insides feeling quivery. “True crime. So 50/50, I’d say. Little history, little gore.” He slings his arms around Ben’s neck, leans in so they’re nose to nose. 

“Maybe you could come over and read it to me some time.” He kisses Marcus again, his hands around Marcus’ waist, making him feel small. “But uhm. Could I ask something?”

Marcus’ heart flitters in his chest. He nods. 

Ben reaches up and touches Marcus’ cheap, blond wig with one large hand. “Can we uh, work our way out of these costumes? I don’t think I can kiss Dahmer for much longer.” 

“Are you asking me to undress?” he teases, but Marcus complys. He pulls off his wig and shakes out his hair, pulls out a few bobby pins and sets them aside. “Is that a little better?” His hair feels rumpled

“Much.” Ben kisses at Marcus’ neck and Marcus cards his fingers through his hair, musses it up so he looks less like Kemper and more like his boyfriend, save for that horrible mustache. He cranes his head away, lets Ben kiss further down his neck until he’s nosing at his collar. 

Marcus makes work of undoing the buttons on Ben’s shirt and Ben mimics the action. 

“I don’t think we’ve ever had this many buttons between us,” Marcus comments quietly. 

Ben ghosts a laugh, slides his hand up under Marcus’ shirt when he’s got it undone. Marcus bristles at the touch before melting into it, Ben’s hand warm and soft, brushing over stomach, up to his chest. His breathing quickens. 

He gets to the last button popped and peels back Ben’s shirt, letting it drop onto the bed. He rubs his bare arms like he’s trying to start a fire, squeezes the soft flesh there. 

“Less and less like Kemper by the minute,” Marcus whispers. 

“I’d say that’s an improvement for both of us,” Ben says gently. He drops his hands down inside Marcus’ open shirt, slips them into the back of his pants to grab at his ass. 

Marcus chirps, buries his face in Ben’s neck. His cheeks are hot enough that Ben feels cool where he’s pressed into him. He rolls his hips experimentally and Ben groans, raises his groin to meet his touch. Ben’s slacks are tight and tented, not yielding the way denim does, and Marcus fumbles with the button and fly on them. 

“Uh,” Ben gulps when Marcus has gotten his pants peeled open. “Lie back for me.” 

Marcus shuffles off his lap, sprawls himself out on the bed. His shirt hangs open, draped over him like a cape, and he watches as Ben crawls atop him, hands bracketing either side of his head in the sheets. 

“Hi there,” Ben whispers.

“Hi, Ben,” Marcus whispers back, giggly. He props himself on his elbows, kisses Ben, hums into it.

Ben kisses him, along his chin then down to his neck, makes Marcus squirm side to side under him. He sits back and undoes Marcus’ pants, slides them down to his thighs. He looks at Marcus’ erection unabashedly, eyes tracing over the prominent line it makes against the front of his underwear. 

“You’re pretty, Marcus,” Ben whispers, leaning forward to engulf his mouth in a kiss. 

Marcus burns, feels his face get even hotter. He puts a hand to Ben’s face, strokes his thumb along his jawline. It’s obscenely tender. “Bone collecting and all?” he asks, half-smiling. Their eye contact is intense. 

“Mm,” Ben hums. He blindly trails his hand down Marcus’ flat, heaving stomach, snakes it under the elastic strap of his underwear. He thumbs over the gathering precum and Marcus gasps, breath hitching in his throat. 

“God,” he hisses. Marcus tries to sit up a little, shuffling, and reaches out, sweeps his hand along the front of Ben’s underwear clumsily. He rubs him through the thin fabric and Ben makes a low, favoring noise. 

_ Are all humans really this warm?  _ Marcus thinks sickly to himself, marveling at the heat that seeps through Ben and into him. He peppers kisses to his chin in scattering patterns, plants a few to his throat. 

Ben edges back and Marcus wants to protest, is afraid he’s touched Ben wrongly somehow. He understands the situation when Ben gets down on his stomach, peering up from between his legs. “Can I?” he asks. 

“Yeah- fuck yeah,” Marcus breathes. 

Ben pulls down Marcus’ underwear just enough that his dick is freed, lying hotly against his lower stomach, and Ben takes it carefully in his hands, presses his tongue to the spot just under the head. Marcus tangles his fingers into Ben’s hair, watches him intensely as he takes his cock into his mouth. 

Marcus sighs and hums at a particularly deep swallow, makes a deep, gutted noise. “Jesus, Ben,” he pants. Both his hands are mussing Ben’s hair, dry like straw from the gel in it.

Ben does something spectacular with his tongue, grips the base of Marcus’ shaft that he can’t get into his throat, twists his wrist. Thin strings of drool hammock between his lips and his fingers, catching the low light from the glowing television in shiny fractals. Ben starts to bob his head aggressively, nostrils flaring each time the back of his throat is filled. 

“Oh, Jesus, Ben,” Marcus whimpers, legs straining, trembling. His slender, chicken-breast pale thighs go taut. “Ben… so good…” 

Ben hums, opens his eyes to look up at Marcus from under his eyelashes. Marcus is positive he already looks wrecked. And foolish, too. He can feel a stray bobby pin hanging down around his left ear. 

Another slick wrist flick and Marcus whines, tosses his head back into his pillows. “Ben… I want,” he gasps, “more. Haven’t been with anyone in - ah - a while and if you keep doing… t-that I’m-”

Ben pulls off of him, cradles his cock in his palm right next to his face. “We can do more,” he says. He sits up, one hand still propped on Marcus’ thigh so his erection leans on it like a crutch, uses his other to ruck down his underwear. He gives Marcus one good last squeeze before crawling over him again, nose to nose. “I haven’t uhm, been this far with a guy before,” he admits.

“I gave a guy head for $20 once in college so I could buy cigarettes and a sandwich so.” He shrugs. “I’m not much more an expert than you.” He puts a hand to the back of Ben’s neck, pulls him down to kiss him fiercely, pushing his tongue past Ben’s teeth. He can feel Ben smiling into it. 

“How about this.” Ben breaks the kiss to look down between their flush bodies then decides something else. “Wait. Actually. Hang on now.” He flops over in the bed, mattress dipping with their combined weight, grabs Marcus and turns him over forcefully so they’re face to face on their sides. Ben worms closer, slings a leg over Marcus’ hip. 

“Oh. I get the picture.” Marcus wiggles in as close as he can. They’re breathing in each other humidly. Marcus’ cock drags wetly across Ben’s stomach, an accidental touch, but he ruts a second and third time, eager and a little mindless. 

“Hey now,” Ben laughs and he shifts Marcus again, effortlessly, and lines their cocks up, wraps a single hand around the both of them. Marcus sputters a moan and ruts shamelessly into the warm tightness of Ben’s palm, his hands splayed over Ben’s chest, touching him up and down. Just to touch him, to be as connected as possible.

Ben kisses him, presses their foreheads together as he works his hand over both of them. “You’re wet,” he comments. 

Marcus squirms, licks aimlessly at Ben’s mouth. His thighs are starting to tremble again, shivering under the satisfying weight of Ben’s leg. “Seems like you are, too,” Marcus replies. He lower stomach is starting to clench, toes curling into the messy sheets. He spits into his palm and pushes Ben’s hand away, strokes over them fiercely, Ben making a punched sound, lolling his head back. 

“Oh, Marcus,” he groans. His chest is rising and falling quickly, a great hill quaking. 

Marcus grunts, wrenches his eyes shut. He fumbles his mouth, finds Ben, kisses him harshly, their teeth clacking, and he comes, warm, thin gushes overflowing in his palm, dribbling onto Ben’s stomach. Ben moans Marcus’ name into his open mouth, dreamy and urgent, and then he’s coming, too, spurting ropes onto Marcus’ thigh. 

They lie there in the darkness, only illuminated by the soft, hazy glow of the TV, breathing heavily. Their hair sticks to them in sweaty curls. 

Marcus uncurls himself from Ben and stumbles into the bathroom, gets a cloth, soaks it in warm water. He wipes down his thighs, his softening erection. He catches a look at himself in the mirror. His hair is messy, synthetic blond wisps caught in it, shirt rumpled. 

He goes back into the bedroom and swabs down Ben, who giggles at the touch, watches Marcus with content, loving eyes. Marcus tosses the cloth into the hamper, gets back into bed to be eagerly snatched by Ben, cuddled into him. Ben is soft and big, a layer of muscle under the plush layer of flesh on his ams, his legs. 

“That was… nice,” Marcus murmurs.

Ben kisses in his hair. “Happy Halloween, Marcus Parks.” 

They cuddle awhile and Marcus eventually reaches for the remote, puts on Last House on the Left. He finds Ben’s underwear and helps him into it, gets into his own, and pulls a blanket up over the both of them. He calls Georgie into the room and she hops up onto the bed, curls into a ball at the foot of it. 

“Hey, Kemper?” Marcus asks from where he’s snuggled into Ben. He’s the little spoon, Ben’s chin resting on the top of his head. 

“Yes, Dahmer?” 

“Love you.” 

Marcus can nearly feel the smile spreading slowly over his face. Ben gives him a squeeze. “I love you, too, Marcus.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was super fun to write! tbh i might one day come back and add more to it because ive got some details and backstories and ideas i didn't get a chance to add here but who knows!
> 
> hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> also big thanks to hannah and her family, who are all associated with the funeral business and helped me with my vague knowledge of burial practices

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! leave kudos + comments if you enjoyed
> 
> talk to me on tmblr @ficfucker


End file.
